


I used to live alone before I knew you

by lumberjackbeards



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumberjackbeards/pseuds/lumberjackbeards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course there can be room for someone romantically in your heart, but the deciding factor should be more along the lines of whether you can afford room for them in your bathroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I used to live alone before I knew you

  The best parts of romance are dealing with the plain and the inglorious; it wasn’t the big romantic gestures that Combeferre enjoyed the most; no, the best parts, (the most _important_ parts,) were the million small things that would happen over the course of every day that would remind him just how much he adored Grantaire. Since birth, you have this idea of romance drilled into your head; it has to be big, important, fireworks and burning light; every day matters are of no importance in the face of it. That, Combeferre mused, was no way to build a lasting relationship. Of course there can be room for someone romantically in your heart, but the deciding factor should be more along the lines of whether you can afford room for them in your bathroom.

  He had known that he couldn’t live with Enjolras and Courfeyrac forever, but he never realized that he would end up living with Grantaire once their time as roommates had come to an end.

  Combeferre had never had to find an apartment in his life, and finding an affordable one that met his needs proved to be a near impossible. His allowance from his mother was more than generous, but it was still not enough to afford an apartment in Paris. At least not without a roommate.

  The solution to the problem presented itself only a few days later. The Amis were gathered together in the back of the Café Musian for their weekly ‘meeting,’ which of course, was really just them getting together to drink, and sometimes talk about their causes.

  “There’s no rally coming up,” Grantaire smiled, sliding into the seat next to him and gesturing at his tablet. “Why in the world are you back here working? Even Enjolras is taking the night off.”

  Combeferre’s expression softened as he looked up andsaw Enjolras drinking with Feuilly; a large smile plastered on his face. He glanced at Grantaire quickly before turning back to his tablet. “I’m afraid it has nothing to do with any causes this time. I’m looking for an affordable apartment.” He grimaced, “I _knew_ how much our rent cost, but I never fully _considered_ it since the cost was split three ways. All the apartments I’m finding are so _expensive_.”

  “Is that all?” Grantaire asked, laughing. “You have been looking down-right panicked the entire evening, when you just need somewhere to live? The solution is right in front of your face.” He paused with a smirk, “Literally.”

  “Are you suggesting I move in with you?” Combeferre asked; putting his tablet to sleep so he could give Grantaire his full attention.

  “I sure am!” Grantaire chirped, slapping his hands together. “You need a place to live; I need a roommate. You see, I’m about to get thrown out of my place because I can’t afford my rent ever since Ep moved in with Cosette. Living together would solve both of our problems.”

  Combeferre was silent as he considered the proposition. It did seem like the perfect solution to his problems, and this way he wouldn’t end up having a complete stranger as a roommate. Sure, Grantaire was hardly perfect, but it was preferable that he live with someone he knew. That way there would be no awkwardness, there wouldn’t be the possibility that they may not get along, and he knew Grantaire’s vices; he wouldn’t be at risk at ending up with someone he couldn’t stand.

  “Alright,” Combeferre said slowly, barely noticing how Grantaire’s face lit up at his acceptance. “That’s not concrete of course; while I will probably agree, since it _is_ the most sensible course of action, but I would still like to think about it, alright?”

  Grantaire nodded, a smile playing on his lips. “That’s cool; just let me know when you decide. Uh, you’ll want to see the apartment first, won’t you? It’s not very much; not nearly as nice as the one you shared with Enjolras and Courf; but it should work.”

  “When would be a good time for me to come over? Is tomorrow alright?”

 “Yeah!” Grantaire nodded eagerly; he had been incredibly worried about what he was going to do, and Combeferre even _considering_ it was a huge relief. “Tomorrow afternoon? About four? It’s a bit cluttered, and I’ll definitely clean it up, but I don’t want to give you any false ideas here. I’m sure that living with someone like you will help me with things like that, but it _is_ going to be a bit of a mess, and while I do kind of apologize for that, it’s not something that’s likely to change.” Grantaire ran a hand over his face with a bit of embarrassment.

  Combeferre laughed; long and loud. “Are you forgetting who I was living with? Courfeyrac and Enjolras leave their things _everywhere_ , and believe me, I’m not quite as anal about things like that as you might expect.” He smiled and reached out to shake Grantaire’s hand. “I’ll see you at four.”

 

  “Welcome to your hopefully new home!”  Grantaire cheered as soon as he flung open the door to his apartment. “Come in and I’ll give you a quick tour, but _please_ watch out for the books.”

  Whatever Combeferre had been expecting, this was not it. When Grantaire had said the place was cluttered, he was _completely_ misrepresenting its true state. Calling his apartment ‘cluttered’ was the biggest understatement Combeferre had ever heard, but he found had never been more endeared. When Grantaire had said it was cluttered, Combeferre had pictured old beer bottles, discarded newspapers, dirty clothes, old mail, etcetera, etcetera. Instead he found himself almost immediately tripping over a large stack of books.

  As far as he could tell, the apartment was filled with similar stacks; surrounding the furniture and lining the walls. They seemed to be in no particular order; just placed on whatever stack looked like it would not topple over at light breeze. He couldn’t imagine how many books there were; surely more than either of them could ever read. He laughed, absolutely delighted by the situation.

  Grantaire colored slightly, biting the inside of his cheek worriedly. “I know it’s a mess; Ep didn’t care, but I mean, I could do something about it if you wanted me too. I know this is ridiculous.”

 “Don’t you dare,” Combeferre smiled fondly, a laugh still dancing at the edge of his voice. “I love it. Though I can tell right now that I am going to end up with some nasty bruises. Do you have some sort of personal vendetta against bookshelves? Don’t misunderstand: this is one of the most fantastic things I’ve seen in a very long time, I’m just curious.”

  “W _ell_ ,” Grantaire dragged the word out; he was finding Combeferre’s delight infectious, and he grinned wildly as he rocked onto the balls of his feet. “I never had enough shelves for the amount of books I would bring home, so I figured I’d just save myself the cost. I would end up just leaving them lying around anyway, so I just let the piles grow.”

  “You do realize that you have enough books here that you could open your own bookstore, right?” Grantaire let out a sharp noise of shock; Combeferre’s head snapped up and laughed at the expression on his face.

  “Are you implying that I _sell them?_ ” He picked a few up and held them to his chest dramatically; “These are my _children_ , Combeferre. Would _you_ sell _your_ children?”

  “I was implying no such thing,” He threw his head back as he laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Now will you please show me the rest of the apartment?”

 

  Combeferre moved in a week later and he was honestly surprised at how easily his life blended with Grantaire’s. He thought the adjustment might be difficult, but he was actually an incredibly conscientious roommate. His only downfall was his adoration of long showers, which would use up all of the hot water. Even when he was drunk, he would stay quietly in his room; sometimes Combeferre could hear muttering or music, but it was never a problem.

  The Amis joked often about how it must have been insufferable, but they all noticed the quiet happiness that had taken root inside of them.

 

  After three weeks of cohabitation, Combeferre decided that Grantaire’s studio was definitely one of his favorite places. The third bedroom in the apartment had been designated to be his studio ever since he had first moved in; he spent more time in there than in any other part of the apartment. It had more windows than the other rooms, it was where his most favorite books were piled; his upright piano was tucked in a corner. It had all his carvings in it, and maybe that was one of the reasons Combeferre liked it so much. It seemed as if they all housed tiny pieces of Grantaire’s heart, from the tiny wooden animals scattered across his desk, to the miniature forest taking up the majority of the floor space. It was going to be his final project and each four foot tree was carved with such dedication and love.

  Grantaire was talented in most forms of art, but wood had always been his favorite medium. He found it soothing, working away the wood to find something beautiful inside.

  Today he was carving a small mouse to give to Joly, something simple, just to clear his head. Combeferre was lying on the old couch; it had been purchased at a second hand shop, and it was the ugliest thing he had ever seen, but it was comfortable. He had picked up The Count of Monte Cristo, and he was currently wrapped up in the plight of Edmond Dantès. He hadn’t read it in some years, but it was no wonder that this was the book he picked up when he was just snatching one at random; it was one of Grantaire’s favorite books, and he was constantly bringing home new copies of it. He had a tendency to do that with all his favorites, Combeferre had noticed. If he saw it in a bookstore, he would bring it home. He apparently couldn’t help himself.

  Combeferre loved spending time in his studio; some days Grantaire would put soft jazz music on as he worked, but today they sat in silence. It was warm and comfortable; it was now warm enough to leave the windows open, and sunlight was streaming in, dancing through the dust motes and sawdust.

  He ended up spending hours in there almost every day; he’d take his school books and study, he’d take naps on the couch, he’d just come in and watch, mesmerized as Grantaire created something amazing out of a block of wood. The scent of sawdust was becoming engrained in his skin, and every evening he’d end up washing wood chips and sawdust out of his hair.

  For a moment he looked up from his book and studied Grantaire, as he seemed prone to do these days. He was bent over his carving, hair falling in his face and his reading glasses slipping down his nose. He was focusing intently on the tiny mouse in his hands, but there was such a _softness_ about him. Combeferre wished he could see that small smile of absolute contentment all the time; it was the loveliest thing. There was a night and day difference between Grantaire in and out of his studio, and if he had to admit, this was the main reason Combeferre loved spending so much time in here.

 

  Sundays were normally quiet affairs, but if he had learnt anything in his many years knowing Grantaire, it was that he was always unpredictable. One Sunday morning, Combeferre was woken up by Grantaire singing. Loudly. Right in his ear. He groaned and pulled the covers over his head, but Grantaire didn’t relent.

 “ _Good morning_ ;” He sang, dragging out the ‘o’ dramatically, “Good morning! Sunshine is shining through! Good morning, good morning to you!”

 It was far too early for this. “It’s _Sunday_ ,” He whined, though it came out muffled from under his thick duvet.

 With that, Grantaire changed his song with a laugh. “Put on your Sunday clothes; there’s lots of world out there! Get out the Brilliantine and dime cigars! We’ll find adventure in the evening air: girls in white, in a perfumed night, with the lights are bright as the stars! Put on your Sunday clothes, we’re gonna ride through town in one of those new horse-drawn open cars! We’ll see the shows in Delmonico’s, and we’ll close the town in a whirl! And we won’t come home until we’ve kissed the girl!”

  Combeferre pulled the covers down, and Grantaire couldn’t help laughing at his glare. “You’re going to keep singing until I get up aren’t you?”

  “I really am,” He beamed, nudging his shoulder gently, “Come on, ‘Ferre. There’s no blue Monday in your Sunday clothes. The sun’s shining and summer is coming and I made breakfast and it’s going to get cold unless you _get up_.”

  “What’d you make?” Combeferre asked suspiciously, pulling the covers back up to his chin as he watched Grantaire with distrust.

  “I made flaxseed pancakes and Courf told me how you loved those. Come on! Greet the day!”

  At that, he sighed in defeat and pulled the covers off, causing Grantaire to let out a loud whoop of victory. As he fumbled for his glasses, Combeferre regarded him with a searching expression, that little crease appearing between his eyebrows. “You’re having a hypomanic episode, aren’t you?”

  It wasn’t accusatory, but it still made Grantaire frown. “Yes.” He replied sharply, getting off Combeferre’s bed. 

  Combeferre realized that Grantaire was drawing away from him, but he still had to ask. “You’re taking your medicine, right? I know these episodes are nice, but it’s dangerous-”

  Grantaire interrupted him, small smile pulling at the corner of his lips once more; it was impossible for him to be angry at anything during an episode, and maybe he found his concern sweet on occasion. “Yes, _dad_ ; now come on, breakfast. It’s getting cold.”

  Combeferre smiled as he followed him back into the living room; all the windows were open and Grantaire whistled cheerfully as he waltzed around the piles of books. They had been growing since he had moved in; Grantaire coming home with a grin and a box piled with books was a regular occurrence in their household. It was no wonder Grantaire had been about to lose his apartment; he didn’t even want to _think_ of how much money he spent on books every month. But it made him happy, and Combeferre still couldn’t help but find it endearing.

  He nattered on animatedly as he served up the pancakes, talking about how much he loved the weather, or about the book he was reading, or about his classes. Grantaire fell silent as he sat down, watching Combeferre with an intense expression as he took his first bite of the pancakes.

  His head fell back and he let out a completely debauched moan as he ate them. “These are a goddamn miracle.”

  Grantaire cheered and began eating his. “Pancakes are the only thing I know how to make, so I learnt how to make them exceptionally.”

  Over the course of their meal Grantaire continued to ramble cheerfully, his focus jumping from one thing to another, though Combeferre found he didn’t mind it all. After all, he had livid with Courfeyrac since he was 18, and he had listened to Grantaire’s drunken speeches more time than he could count. This was normal, this was comfortable, it was home.

  Combeferre smiled softly as they washed the dishes together; he was completely content. He was so glad that he had decided to room with Grantaire instead of some stranger.

  Finally Grantaire declared that he had to meet Joly and Bossuet at the park; on his way out he laughed and kissed Combeferre’s cheek, declaring that he’d be home in time for dinner, and that he’d miss him terribly.

 

  They fought the first time as autumn was settling in. It was a miracle they hadn’t fought for this long, but when they finally did, it was brutal. It had been brewing for a few days; Combeferre had been stressed because of school, because of the upcoming protest, because he couldn’t sleep; Grantaire had been withdrawing inside himself, he was growing more and more irritable, he had been drinking more with every passing day.

  It was set off by something unimportant, as these things always were. Grantaire made a sarcastic comment over Combeferre’s notes about the rally, he snapped back, everything went to hell.

  “You’ve been incredibly irritable recently, are you taking your medicine? I know you always say yes, but I want you to be honest with me.” Besides his original response to Grantaire’s comment, he had been calm throughout the argument so far.

  “ _Of course!_ ” Grantaire let out a harsh, humorless spat of laughter. “Of course that is the first fucking thing you ask about! Whenever I am just a tiny bit happy or a tiny bit upset, it goes back to ‘ _are you taking your medicine are you taking your medicine are you taking your medicine?_ ’” He mimicked in a harsh falsetto. “Yes, I’m fucking taking my medicine, and I can’t fucking take you asking about it anymore! I’m a goddamn adult, if you haven’t noticed!”

  “I know I’m frustrating you, but you know that people with bipolar disorder are incredibly likely to stop taking their medicine, and I know you’ve taken yourself off them before.” Combeferre still keeping up a calm front, masking the annoyance that was burrowing inside him.

  “That was two years ago!” Grantaire yelled, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Besides, even if I did stop taking them; it wouldn’t be your business. Just because you live with me doesn’t make it your business. I don’t know where you got the idea that it is, because it is so totally absolutely incorrect that I have a hard time _comprehending_ it.”

  “I only ask because I care about you.” He responded, crossing his arms. “We should set you up an appointment with your psychiatrist. If you’re taking your meds, it’s possible they’re not working anymore, and we need to rectify that as soon as possible. It would also help if you cut back on your alcohol intake.”

  “I can’t _believe_ you!” Grantaire shouted, his anger finally reaching its peak; he grabbed a book off the nearest stack and threw it against the wall. There was a loud ‘thunk’ as it hit; Grantaire picked up another, but he didn’t throw it. “Do you know what your problem is? You’re so fucking analytical; you just come along and solve everyone’s problems for them, except you don’t bother consulting them or thinking about their feelings! Because of course you know best!”

  “In this case I _do_ know best!” Combeferre finally yelled, “Have you _seen_ yourself recently!? You need help; you need _something!_ ”

  Grantaire took a long breath, letting it out slowly. He curled the one hand that wasn’t holding the book and uncurled it a few times, a nervous gesture.  He stopped and studied Combeferre, trying to make up his mind. “You know what?” He said slowly, calmly; “I think we’re done. No, that’s not right; I _know_ we’re done. I’m not going to live with someone that treats me like this. You’re leaving.”

  “Grantaire,” Combeferre started, trying to decide whether or not he was serious. Sure, he was angry, but he wasn’t expecting Grantaire to actually kick him out.

  When Combeferre said his name, he began shaking his head rapidly. “No,” He said, continuing to shake his head back and forth back forth back and forth back and forth. “No.” He stopped to take a shaky breath and let the book fall to the floor, not seeming to notice. “No, you’re leaving. Get out.”

  When Combeferre didn’t move, he continued. “Do you not understand what I’m saying to you?” He yelled, “Leave! Get the fuck out of my apartment!” He pointed to the door and watched with silent fury as Combeferre finally stumbled out.

 

  When Combeferre arrived on Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s doorstep, they took one look at him and pulled him inside without preamble.

  Soon they were set on the couch; Combeferre sandwiched between the two of them as he told them what happened. Their sympathy dissipated quickly as the argument was recounted. He wasn’t even half-way through before they were both yelling and Courfeyrac had slapped him on the back of his head.

  “You really do have a problem of trying to fix people’s problems without them.” Enjolras frowned, after they had calmed down. “You’ve tried to do it with me and Courf more times than I can count.”

  “Yeah,” Courfeyrac took over. “We’ve _told_ you that you needed to work on it. Considering your habit and Grantaire’s personality, I’m honestly surprised it lasted this long. He’s not the type to let people treat him like that.”

  “I _know,_ ” Combeferre sighed, running a hand over his face and pressing himself further into the sofa. “I’m furious with myself; he had every right to be angry with me and I don’t know how to make it better.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging on the ends anxiously.

  Finally Courfeyrac sighed, giving him a small smile. “I don’t know if you _can_ do anything, but you shouldn’t worry about it tonight. Come on, we could order take-out? Watch a movie?”

  Combeferre smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, while Enjolras curled closer to him. “Yeah, I think I need that.”

 

  It was almost two in the morning when they heard a timid knock at the door. There was some quiet bickering between them over who would have to extract themselves from the cuddle puddle and go answer it.

  Finally, ignoring his protests, they pushed Combeferre towards the door insisting that his whole hot dad look would scare away whoever dared to come over at this time of night.  He ran a hand over his face and stared at the door; he wasn’t really in the mood to see anyone. He wanted to sulk and feel guilty and _not_ deal with human beings that were not Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

  When he gathered the strength to open the door, he couldn’t believe it was Grantaire standing there.

  “Look,” He said, holding his hands up before Combeferre could say a word. “I want to prefix this by saying that I’m _not_ sorry for what I said. You were horrible and everything I said was true. You can’t treat people like that and I’m sure as hell not going to let you treat _me_ like that.”

  “I know,” Combeferre said softly, “I was terrible to you and I swear I’m going to work on that. Courfeyrac and Enjolras yelled at me quite a bit this evening, and I just. I’m sorry for talking to you like that. You deserve to be treated better and I’m so sorry about everything. You honestly have every right to never speak to me again.”

  “I know I do, but after you left I started thinking and I realized that I don’t _want_ to stop speaking to you.” Grantaire took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he continued.  “You’re an asshole but I’m an asshole too, and I think our levels of assholery fit rather well. If you could just trust me to take care of myself, I think this could work. Because-” He opened his eyes and gave Combeferre the smallest of smiles, “I just- I really like living with you. Will you please come home?”

  “ _Please,_ ” Combeferre breathed, a smile breaking across his face. He turned around and yelled into the living room; where Enjolras and Courfeyrac were supposedly still watching their movie. “I’m going home!” He called, his smile evident in his voice, but it grew wider when his announcement was greeted with faint cheering.

 

  They were silent on the walk home to their apartment and once inside they just said quiet ‘good night’s before heading to their rooms.

  Combeferre was finally struck with how exhausted he was as he climbed into his bed. The day had been absolutely draining, and his mind was still a whirlwind of activity. He lay there for a few moments, finding sleep unattainable. He wasn’t sure how many restless minutes had passed when there was a cautious knock on his door.

  “Grantaire?” He asked, sitting up as a head peeked around his door. Grantaire shuffled in, but he didn’t speak for a few moments. The floors were always cold at night, he tucked one foot behind his opposite calf to warm it as he pointedly avoiding looking at Combeferre’s shadowy figure. He glanced at the wall, as if studying the posters, pamphlets, and photos that were pinned there even though they were impossible to make out them out in the dark. He looked over his messy desk and smiled as he saw Combeferre’s bookshelf, noticing the books piled on the floor around it.

  “I’m still mad at you,” He started, giving Combeferre a pointed look, “But I can’t sleep and- it’s fine if you say no, I understand, I really do- I just wanted to know if I could stay with you tonight?”

  “Of course,” Combeferre grinned, lifting up a corner of the bed covers as invitation. Grantaire hurried across the room and climbed in quickly, as if he was worried that Combeferre would change his mind.

  As soon as he was in the bed, he relaxed; pulling the covers around him, pressing his cold feet against Combeferre’s warm leg, causing him to let out a yelp if surprise. Grantaire laughed as Combeferre tried to push him out of the bed with a half-hearted insult. The bed was small, so they ended up tangled together, anyway; with Grantaire’s frozen feet tucked against Combeferre’s legs. It was the first time in weeks that sleep had come easily to Combeferre.

 

  It was four in the morning and Combeferre couldn’t sleep. It had been three weeks since their big argument; three weeks since Grantaire had kicked him out and invited him back; three weeks since they had come home and curled up together.

  He had been lying on his bed in the dark for a few hours now; he had considered studying, working on his laptop, ( _watching Parks and Recreation on his laptop._ ) He had considered reading for a while, but he wasn’t really in the mood for anything he owned.

  But he had more than just the books he owned at his disposal, he realized; there were hundreds outside his door. It wasn’t like Grantaire would mind; he couldn’t count how many afternoons he had curled up with Grantaire, both just reading whatever book piqued their interest.

  Rousing himself out of the bed, he slipped his feet into his slippers as he moved towards the center of their apartment. Avoiding the piles was had become a habit; despite the fact that they were lined up along the walls and around the furniture, the apartment was so small that it was still fairly easy to run into one of them, especially in the dark.

  He grabbed the book on top of the stack next to the couch, holding it close to read the title; _Cyrano de Bergerac_. Combeferre smiled; he knew this was Grantaire’s favorite; he had come home just the other day with this copy; (his _seventeenth copy_ , Combeferre thought with a small huff of laughter,) he’d never actually read it, but if Grantaire loved it so much, it was worth a shot.

  He was just about to head back to his bed when he heard faint singing coming from the kitchen. He crept towards the kitchen door, making sure not to trip over the books and disturbing whatever it was Grantaire was doing.

  What it he was doing, it turned out, was dancing. His eyes were closed as he slowly sashayed around the kitchen with an invisible partner, singing softly to himself. It took Combeferre a moment to place the song, but it soon hit him. Grantaire was singing _Someone to Watch Over Me_. It seemed like he was always singing this song; he sang it as he worked on his carvings, he sang it as he did the dishes, he hummed it to himself as he read. He had told Combeferre that his mother had always sung that song to him as a child; though that was actually a bit heartbreaking considering Grantaire’s life.

  Grantaire might not be what most people would call attractive, but _oh,_ is he lovely in this moment. And there it is. That smile that was so rare; that smile that Combeferre adored. That smile of perfect serenity; when Grantaire would let all his carefully constructed walls slip away for just a moment. No matter the situation, even if it was just the two of them sitting silently on the couch, reading, he was always guarded. He was so careful to never let his walls down completely.

  The only times Combeferre could remember seeing this smile outside of the studio was when Grantaire read a letter his sister would occasionally send him and during meetings at the Musian on the rare nights where he would just sit in the back and just watch his friends move about the room and laugh joyfully.

  When those walls come down, he is the most beautiful creature alive; he’s soft and warm, calm, and just so _happy_. He’s breathtaking. It makes Combeferre’s heart ache; he’s happy that Grantaire is so content, but he wishes he wore this expression more often.

  As he’s leaning against the doorway, Grantaire’s favorite play in his hands, the realization hits him. It comes as these things normally do; one minute everything was fine and then- oh. _Oh_. Maybe it wasn’t love when they first met, maybe it wasn’t love when he first came to the apartment, maybe it wasn’t love when he moved in. It wasn’t love on all the days they spent in quit companionship in Grantaire’s studio. It wasn’t love on the day Grantaire made pancakes, it wasn’t love during the argument, and it wasn’t love when Grantaire asked him to come home.

  It wasn’t love then, but it is now and everything has changed, and only Combeferre has noticed. Maybe it all seems the same on the outside, but the world has been completely turned upside down. And maybe it’s not a bad thing; maybe this could be a wonderful turn of fate.

  _Hello_ , he thinks with a soft smile, _I think I’m a little bit in love with you_.

  As beautiful as Grantaire is in this moment, and as full as his heart was, Combeferre knew he had to turn away. This is a private moment for the both of them, and he needed to respect that. He allowed himself one more moment, to take it all in. But the moment does not last nearly long enough, before he forces himself to turn away and go back to bed.

 

  Winter had blown in not three weeks before and had taken a hold over the city, one that would not let up for a long time. Combeferre was stretched out on frumpy couch in Grantaire’s studio, not even pretending to pay attention to his essay anymore. It was so nice and warm in here, and from his position on the couch he could see the snow falling out the window; Grantaire was sitting at the upright piano in the corner of the room, playing a soft song that Combeferre vaguely recognized as Billy Joel, though he couldn’t pinpoint what song it was exactly.

  It didn’t matter, though, because he looked so at peace: eyes soft, his reading glasses slipping down his nose, humming along quietly. He always seemed to be moving in a slightly frantic fashion, and it was so nice to see him so calm. But this was almost the scene in the kitchen all over again. The softness was back, that small smile. And Combeferre found that warmth taking root in his heart once more.

  Watching this scene, Combeferre couldn’t help himself. “I love you.” He said it softly, calmly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And in a way, it was; it felt as if the words belonged in his mouth, as if he was born to speak those words to Grantaire every day for the next hundred years.

  The piano playing stopped abruptly. “Is this a joke?” Grantaire demanded, not turning to look at him; his fingers still pressing down on the worn keys even though the notes had long faded into the air. The keys were the only thing grounding him, assuring him that he was still there.

  “Not at all,” Combeferre responded, setting his notes aside and sitting up to look fully at him.

  “ _Oh,_ ” Grantaire let out a huge breath full of relief, as if it suddenly all made sense. “Like with Enjolras and Courfeyrac; as a friend.”

  “Not at all,” Combeferre said simply, with a smile. “I love you. I’m _in_ love with you. I have been for some time now.”

  “This is a bad idea.” Grantaire was stiff, still refusing to look at him “I- I drink too much and you know my bipolar disorder makes me unbearable and I’m impatient and restless and bitter and cynical and I don’t believe in the same things you do and I’m impatient and I’m not smart and you’ll get sick of me and then where will we be?”

  “I know all that; I _have_ been living with you for over a year.” Combeferre knew that now was not the time to assure Grantaire of how amazing he was, so he just smiled and continued. “And I know I won’t fix you, but I don’t care because I love you. Besides, I am stubborn and hypercritical and vain and too analytical and I’m often too blunt. I know we can make this work; you said yourself that our levels of assholery fit well.”

  “You really haven’t thought this through.” Grantaire laughed, a bitter thing, still keeping his back to him. He knew as soon as he did, he’d cave and agree to try it. “We’ll be horrible together and you know it.”

  “Well sometimes being in love can make you do ridiculous things. You’re listening to your head and not to me. Please just stop thinking about everything that can go wrong.”

  Grantaire eased his fingers off the keys and turned his head in Combeferre’s direction; he still wasn’t looking at him, but it was a start. “ ‘If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be cynical. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down.’ ” He quoted, the smallest smile pulling at his lips.

    “Exactly!” Combeferre exclaimed, “And I believe we could build a beautiful pair of wings.” Normally if someone turned him down, he didn’t argue. But this was Grantaire, and they both knew that the only reason he wasn’t accepting was because he had a tendency to deprive himself of any good thing. If Grantaire didn’t want this, he would have flat-out told him at the start.

  “Icarus’ father thought he could build a beautiful pair of wings. Doesn’t mean it turned out well.” Grantaire closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath. His heart was aching; he wanted to accept, but he knew he’d ruin it; he ruined everything.

  “But you’re not Icarus, and I’m not the sun.” Combeferre was ever patient, ever calm. He knew Grantaire; he knew he would accept; he just had to be patient.

  He finally turned around completely to meet his gaze. “What we have right now is perfect; I’ll destroy everything. You know I have a propensity to fuck things up.” His voice was thick; he was honestly terrified.

  “I don’t think so,” Combeferre was still smiling, warm and inviting and open. “Obviously we’re going to have rough patches, and maybe it will be your fault, or maybe it will be mine. All I know is that every time you ask me to come home again, I’ll come.”

  Grantaire’s face crumbled, and he quickly got up and went over to him. Straddling Combeferre’s lap, he kissed him deeply, slow and lingering. Combeferre didn’t even think; he wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight as the kissed turned more desperate.

  Grantaire finally pulled away, and buried his face into Combeferre’s shoulder. Combeferre stroked his hair, whispering to him quietly. “I know you’re scared you’re going to ruin this, but you aren’t, I promise. I love you, I love you. We’re going to make this work.”

  Grantaire sat up and closed his eyes, repeating the word as a prayer. “We’re going to make this work, because I love you and you love me, and this can work.”

  “Exactly,” Combeferre smiled, cradling his face and kissing his temple. “It’s going to be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> also if anyone's curious, the Billy Joel song Grantaire was playing was And So It Goes. which is a pretty fitting song for his relationship with Combeferre. 
> 
> I'm [romanifeuilly](http://romanifeuilly.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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